


A Wolf’s Pride

by stevem1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow is called Jon Hill, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevem1/pseuds/stevem1
Summary: What if the Lannisters arrived at the Tower of Joy first, just ahead of Ned Stark?  This is very AU in parts, but some major plot points from canon are used.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Talla Tarly (possibly minor)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. I’m only borrowing some of his characters and settings to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.

AN: This story was the original basis for Ser Jon, Lord of Castamere. I couldn’t finagle my way around what I would think would be Tywin’s very logical opposition to making Jon king, or even acknowledging him as a Targaryen, so I gave it up and took the tack seen in Ser Jon. 

Like Ser Jon, this was intended originally to be Jon/Joy. Whether it remains that way, or becomes Jon/Talla or Jon/Myrcella (once it’s known he’s not her uncle), one of the Sand Snakes (I have some Jon/Sarella|Arellas scenes in another unpublished work that I could easily adapt and plug in), or someone else remains to be seen. 

I’ve reworked the first three chapters but ditched the Ser Jon storyline for the balance of this one. It’ll take a different path, including Jon at King’s Landing at some point.

AWP AWP AWP

Tywin Lannister strode purposefully away from the Great Hall. Behind him marched two files of red armored knights and armsmen, his personal guard. While his face was impassive, he raged inside. He didn’t even feel the heat of the noon day sun, despite his heavy armor, such was his anger.

He was the Lord of Casterly Rock. The Warden of the West. For two decades he’d served as Hand of the King. He stood at the head of the best trained, best equipped army in all of Westeros. 

It was his army that gained access to the Red Keep. It was his army that took control of the city, avoiding a protracted siege. It was his army that delivered King’s Landing to the soon to be King Robert, effectively ending the war.

Despite his station, despite his service, Eddard Stark dared to publicly accuse him of the murder of babes and their Dornish whore of a mother. He dared question his honor and that of his son. The insult was not to be borne.

The fact that he gave the order was of no import. It was necessary. It was for the good of the realm. And for the good of his House, he added mentally. Men who understood these things would not have publicly besmirched his reputation for merely doing his duty.

Lord Stark, he mused as his long strides carried him out of the Red Keep, was a man of limited understanding and forethought. He did not understand the intricacies of the game. He would have to tread carefully around him. Such men often stubbornly clung to their honor. They rarely comprehended the harm they caused themselves or others, so wrapped up were they in their pride.

Normally, that would not concern him. Honorable men, stubborn men, prideful men, died just as easily as weak men. It was unfortunate that this particular stubborn, honor bound, prideful fool had the ear of the soon to be King. That made him dangerous.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East. Together they represented almost half the military power of the Seven Kingdoms. 

The three men were inseparable, he knew. Jon was the foster father to both Baratheon and Stark. The two boys considered each other as brothers in all but blood. Then Arryn and Stark had become goodbrothers, marrying the only two daughters of Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident. 

It would be a fair estimate that they now controlled, by blood or marriage, more than half of the armies of Westeros. Stark was the linchpin. Stark was dangerous.

It would take a lot to drive a wedge between them and rupture their alliance. Until he did, he would have to endure whatever slights Stark heaped upon him. He raged at the thought.

Aerys had been a fool to execute Eddard Stark’s father and brother. They would have made better hostages than corpses. Rhaegar had been a fool to kidnap Stark’s sister. No matter how beautiful, no woman was worth war. Beautiful women were common enough and could be had for a handful of coins in any city worthy of the name.

What was worth war, what was worth killing, was a House’s honor. Without honor, the noble houses were no better than bandits. And honor was nothing more than another word for reputation. Eddard Stark had besmirched his House’s reputation before the soon to be king, and all the assembled nobles and knights gathered in the Great Hall. It was not to be borne.

He ground his teeth as he considered the problem. The kidnapping, and likely rape, of Lyanna Stark had precipitated this war. Tywin did not blame Stark and his allies for going to war over such a slight. A House that could not protect its daughters, could not protect or avenge its blood, was hardly worthy of the name. 

Why Stark would take offense over the death of his enemy’s family was beyond him. Babes grew. If allowed to live, they would doubtless take vengeance in turn for the death of their father. It was better for the realm that they die, that war be avoided and the peace maintained. 

He snorted. Stark likely had no care for the hundreds, if not thousands, of dead babes and mothers his rebellion had caused. War, violence, always resulted in the death of innocents. A slip of a girl, kidnapped and raped, and thousands died, soldiers and innocents alike. And Stark dared lecture him over the death of a mere three such innocents.

He frowned. The war was started over the kidnap of Lyanna Stark. Where was the girl?

He raised his hand as he stopped. His men came to a rest. He was half way to his camp, he noted idly.

“Ser Benedict, seek out Grand Maester Pycelle. I want to know where Rhaegar kept Lyanna Stark before the morning sunrise,” he commanded, speaking to the knight to his right.

Benedict Broom saluted smartly as he turned and headed back to the Red Keep with a martial stride. Ser Benedict was a loyal man and a skilled warrior. He would have to see about promoting him.

“Lester, Lum,” he continued. Two men broke ranks and knelt before him. They were men of low birth, but reliable as had been their fathers before them. They would do. 

He fished some coins out of his pouch and tossed them to the ground before them. “Take the money. Seek out the serving staff, particularly those who served Rhaegar. Bribe them, or ply them with drink, or use more forceful methods, I care not. See what they have to say about Lady Lyanna and where she might be held. Return before sunrise.”

He ignored their muttered, “yes, m’lord” as he resumed his return to camp. His mind returned to how he would avenge the slight that Stark had visited upon him. It would not, could not, be forgotten.

He spent the balance of the day and well into the evening, seeing to the disposition of his men. They were all allies now, at least in theory, but he was not one to trust in the honor of others. He ensured that his men were in key, heavily fortified positions. If it came to blows, however unlikely, he would be well placed to take control of the city. He had the numbers and his men were relatively well rested compared to the others. 

Of the allies, only Stark had arrived with significant force. Arryn and Baratheon had traveled ahead with only their honor guards. The fools. 

He idly wondered who commanded their armies in their absence. It might be worth seeing if their loyalty could be suborned.

It was still hours before sunrise when Ser Benedict returned and found him in his command tent. Lum and Lester trailed behind. Tywin ignored the blood on Lum’s steel gauntlets, as he continued to mark up the parchment before him.

“Well?” he asked in a voice like gravel once he had finished approving the budget necessary to ensure the resupply of his forces. 

“My lord,” Ser Benedict began, “Grand Maester Pycelle believes the Stark girl was being held at the Tower of Joy. He cannot say whether she remains there now. Prince Rhaegar had exchanged messengers with the Tower while marshaling his army at King’s Landing. Three of the Kingsguard are believed to stand watch over her.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Kingsguard being in attendance was surprising. They did not normally serve as jailers. He paused and considered that thought more fully. He did not like what their presence implied. He pushed it from his mind. For now, at least.

In the distance he saw direwolf banners marshaling. The reports he had received on Stark indicated he habitually mustered his troops as the sun rose. He approved. It was one of the few things he thought sensible about the northern lord.

“And you,” he asked, addressing Lum and Lester. “What did you discover?”

“The same, m’lord,” responded Lester, as Lum blinked dimly at his side. “They also think the Stark girl left willingly with Prince Rhaegar.”

And that, he thought, gave further support to his theory as to why the Kingsguard were at the Tower of Joy. It was a problem that needed to be dealt with sooner, rather than later.

How would Lord Stark react, he mused, if he discovered his war, one that had killed so many, was built on a lie. Bringing that story to light might damage House Stark’s reputation. Better, it might drive a wedge between Lord Stark and King Robert. It was worth considering as it would go a small way toward redressing the slight Stark had cast upon his honor. 

“Send my brothers to me,” he told Benedict before turning to Lester. “Take some men. I want all staff with knowledge of Rhaegar and Lyanna rounded up and placed under guard in our camp. Question them vigorously to ensure we miss no one.” 

He wasn’t worried about Arryn or Baratheon troops interfering. They were too few and would be standing guard over their lords. They would not have time to care about the fate of smallfolk, in the unlikely event they became aware of what he was doing. Stark’s forces appeared to be marching and so would not be a factor.

He returned to his supply reports as they hurried to do their duty. He pinched his nose to stave off his tiredness. Sleep would wait until his men were secure, including making sure they were fed and paid.

The sun was just cresting the horizon when his brothers arrived. Steady and reliable Kevan, the tempestuous and brave Tygett, and the flippant but clever Gerion.

“Kevan, you will command the bulk of our infantry forces in King’s Landing. Secure the city. Ingratiate yourself with Robert or, failing that, with Jon Arryn. Lord Arryn seems to be a sensible man, one we can work with.” Seeing his brother’s stoic nod of assent, he continued. “I want a strong guard around Jaime. Not an obvious one, but if there is some misguided effort to hold him to account to dealing with Aerys, our forces are to intervene.”

Kevan was an intelligent and cautious man, which made him an able lieutenant. Tywin was not surprised when he asked, “and if King Robert or Lord Arryn insist?”

Tywin’s gaze was unyielding. “I would prefer persuasion or bribery, but if they persist, make them bleed. I don’t care who you have to kill, you will ensure that no harm comes to my son. Even if you have to reduce this city to rubble. Understood?” 

“Understood,” Kevan replied calmly. Nothing ruffled Kevan. He was Tywin’s most favored brother for a reason. Whether on the battlefield or a ballroom, he always had his wits about him. 

“Gerion,” he addressed his youngest brother. “You will take whatever gold is necessary and commandeer any available ships in the harbor. You will board as many of our infantry as possible.” Based on what little he saw was moored in the harbor, that was likely not more than a thousand men. Even half that number would serve, he thought.

He pulled out a map, which Gerion leaned over to inspect with interest. His youngest brother was flippant and irresponsible, but he did love the sea and was best suited for this task. “You will sail south, hugging the coast. Avoid the Royal Fleet. Sail up the River Wyl. At the headwaters, disembark leaving a strong guard,” he said as he traced out the route. “You will then march for what is called the Tower of Joy. It is located at the northern edge of the Red Mountains in the vicinity of the Prince’s Pass, between Nightsong and Kingsgrave. Hire guides, if need be. You will seize it and any who are there.”

Gerion’s eyes continued to roam the map, even as he hummed his assent. Tywin was satisfied. Gerion had long desired an independent command and this would give him a chance to prove himself.

“Tygett, you will take a hundred mounted men and take the overland approach to the Tower. Take remounts. Your primary concern is speed.” He looked at the brother who reminded him so much of his son. In many ways, Jaime was Tygett come again, including chafing under his authority. Tygett’s grunt was the only indication that he heard his orders. “Your objective is the same as Gerion’s,” he said nodding to his two younger brothers. “Let us see who can take the Tower first.” 

He saw them exchange a competitive look and suppressed a triumphant smile. His brothers were all so predictable. It made them easy to manipulate.

“And if Dorne takes offense?” Kevan said softly, always cautious.

“Let them,” Tywin responded dismissively. He had killed the sister of Prince Doran and saw no need to pretend that he and the Martells would ever be friends. “I will take the bulk of our cavalry and follow behind Tygett.” He looked at his warrior brother, the one who so desired a reputation at arms. “You need only hold for a day or two, if Dornish forces engage. Retire to Nightsong if you must. I will be riding to your relief.”

“And if Lord Arryn asks where or why you have gone?” Kevan’s tone was not challenging. Tywin knew he was merely trying to prepare for a near certain eventualities. 

Tywin's smile was predatory. “Tell him Lord Stark’s words were insulting. That while I’ve taken offense, I will do my duty. I am marching behind any remnant Dornish forces to ensure they are returning to Dorne and that they do not molest our smallfolk as they leave. It is my duty as Lords Stark and Tyrell are otherwise engaged. Once they have entered the Pass, then I will return to the Rock.” 

Let Lord Arryn worry about how offended he might truly be, what he might do. Maybe it would make him more receptive to the idea that his daughter should be queen.

Despite his brothers’ idiosyncrasies, they were energetic and competent. Gerion was embarked with nearly eight hundred men just before the evening tide. Tygett’s men, almost all lightly armored outriders leading remounts, had been on the road before even Stark’s forces marched.

It soon became apparent that Northern forces had not pulled entirely out of King’s Landing. Stark had left a thousand foot to supplement the Gold Cloaks in keeping the peace. While it showed that Stark and his allies were not entirely without wit, his Westerlands men still had the numeric advantage several times over. And securing the city was not the same as securing the Red Keep.

Regardless, the remaining Northmen added another wrinkle and so Tywin was not able to leave until the following morning. The time was spent in too many staff meetings, ensuring the smooth transfer of command to Kevan, and discussing and preparing for possible eventualities. 

By the time the following morning’s sun rose, he was looking forward to being back in the saddle so he could sleep. A small, but important, trick he’d learned as a young man when he had served in the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

When he finally pulled away from King’s Landing, he was at the head of over two thousand heavy horse, and another three hundred light horse serving as outriders and scouts. They would make decent time, he knew, but their supply wagons would slow them down compared to the pace his brothers would set. 

If Dorne took offense, assuming they were able to muster a response, his brothers could hold the Pass a few days if need be. But only if they were able to combine forces, which was not guaranteed. 

He consoled himself with the thought that they might be able to fall back and shelter at Nightsong. It was a strong castle and should be able to hold out for months, if the castellan allowed them entry. He refused to consider the consequences if the castellan did not.

Tywin Lannister was not a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He had ordered the deaths of thousands in his time. Men, women, children, it was irrelevant. He had always given the orders with an impassive face, never betraying a hint of uncertainty, secure in the knowledge that those deaths were strategically necessary. 

However, the possibility of his brothers, his blood, meeting their deaths at the end of Dornish spears infuriated him. The remnants of ten thousand Dornish spears had fled Rhaegar’s defeat at the Trident. He was reasonably sure that they would pass into Dorne before his brothers arrived, but sometimes men dithered, especially broken men. If so, he needed to be there as quickly as possible to provide support for Tygett and Gerion.

He pushed his men as fast as he dared. It would serve no purpose to arrive exhausted, just as it would serve no purpose to arrive too late. It was a delicate balance, but one that he thought he had long ago mastered.

His outriders kept him well away from Stark’s forces. While he would not necessarily mind an unfortunate but accidental skirmish, as spilling a little blood might wash away a small part of the insult inflicted on his House, he wanted to engage only if he would likely prevail. 

Stark was an experienced battle commander. He had near fifteen thousand men under his banner, so victory was unlikely. Better to stay far away.

When his men passed by Nightsong, he hired a few hunters who knew the trails around the northern portion of the Prince’s Pass. They were able to guide him unerringly to the Tower of Joy.

He was pleased when he saw both Gerion and Tygett’s forces encamped around the tower. They did not appear to have suffered any significant casualties. They were in defense positions, taking advantage of the natural terrain and the modest protection offered by the tower itself.

Tygett was the first to greet him. As usual, he was armored and mounted, his golden hair shining under the hot Dornish sun. 

“Brother,” he said matter of factly as he led him toward the low stone wall around the tower. “We took the tower a week ago. It was defended by three Kingsguard. They defended from the stairwell and fought well.” As he spoke he pointed out the areas where the fight occurred. Bloodstill stained the ground. “We forced an entry. Once in, I used crossbows to bring them down.”

Tywin looked at Tygett. He could not help the approving look that momentarily crossed his face. He would have bet that Tygett would have taken the opportunity to personally cross swords with a Kingsguard in an effort to bolster his reputation. That he did not was proof that he was acting more a battle commander and less a green boy. He would have to see about assigning more responsibility to Tygett.

“And the girl?” he asked.

“Pregnant but ailing when we arrived. She was extended every courtesy.”

“Was?” His brother’s use of the past tense was indicative of something, he thought.

Gerion approached, a somber look on his usually jovial face. “The poor thing passed in childbirth a couple days passed. The babe survived.” An arrogant smirk crossed his face briefly, before vanishing. “She did speak with her brother before passing. My men captured him and his men as he was coming down from the hills.”

Tywin stood still, raising his hand to stop further comments. He needed to think. 

Somehow Lord Stark had gotten well ahead of him, despite detouring to relieve the siege at Storm’s End. That meant he knew of his sister’s location, either before he left King’s Landing or he learned it at Storm’s End. To make up the lost time, he must have come alone with a small party. That Gerion’s men were able to capture him lent further proof to that theory.

“Is he still alive?”

Gerion looked offended. “Of course he is, brother. I know better than to kill a Warden out of hand.”

Tywin did not know whether to praise Gerion or take him to task. Killing Lord Stark would have avenged the insult given to their House’s honor. It would have demonstrated ample ruthlessness on Gerion’s part. Something which he was noticeably lacking, in Tywin’s opinion. 

On the other hand, he thought looking around, there were several hundred men who were aware of Stark’s presence. That Lannisters had taken him into custody would not stay a secret. If he was killed, or even just made to vanish, he was sure that Robert Baratheon would someday soon turn his armies into the Westerlands. 

Tywin was proud of his men. He was proud of his leadership. But he knew Casterly Rock would not survive the combined might of the North, the Riverlands, the Vale and the Stormlands. 

Now likely the Crownlands also, he added. He needed allies before he’d consider cracking that nut. Perhaps the Ironborn? He pushed those thoughts aside. They could wait.

He decided praise was the appropriate response. “Well done, both of you.” Tygett gave his customary grunt in response, while Gerion preened, just slightly. He knew his youngest brother well enough to know that he appreciated the praise but was unwilling to openly admit it. “Is there anything else?”

Tygett looked disturbed. “Yes,” he replied as he motioned for Tywin to follow.

He was led into the tower. Four armored men stood outside, which Tywin thought was a touch excessive but then Tygett was always a believer that too much force was better than not enough.

He saw no guards inside. He approved. The babe was a liability one way or the other. Limiting the knowledge of its existence was prudent.

When they reached the top floor of the tower, he saw a well-endowed wet nurse, just short of middle age, nursing a newborn child. His brother dismissed the nursemaid, telling her to leave but to stay in the tower. Tywin raised an eyebrow in question.

“I was present when the child was born and the girl spoke with her brother. She claimed that the war was a mistake, that she left willingly. She also claimed to have been married before a heart tree on the Isle of Faces. The Kingsguard stood witness.” He opened a chest and gestured inside. 

Tywin saw a marriage cloak in Targaryen colors, embroidered with a three headed dragon. Resting atop the cloak was a dragon’s egg, long since petrified. A bundle of letters were wedged between the egg and the side of the chest. A wilted crown of blue winter roses rested atop the egg.

“The letters collaborate the girl’s story of a marriage,” he concluded. 

“So do we smother the boy or crown him?” Gerion quipped. Despite his joking, Tywin could tell he was reluctant to kill the child. Both of his brothers were soft-hearted and would likely protest if he tried to murder the babe. Still, he thought they would not physically resist if that was his decision. 

Tywin confessed that a large part of him wished his brothers had simply killed the child the moment it was born. While they each had, so far as he could tell, handled their end of things as well as could be expected, they were still limited by their personal concepts of honor. Neither demonstrated the ruthlessness or cruelty it took to rule.

They each had too much of their father in them. Too kind. Too compassionate. Too forgiving. Tytos was almost the destroyer of his own house, so unwilling was he to do what was necessary.

He sighed as he rubbed his eyes. “Let me speak with Lord Stark before we decide that,” he replied. He looked at the chest again. “Secure this. Ensure that it is well guarded.”

It was easy to make a corpse, he thought to himself. It was impossible to restore a life once taken. There was no rush to decide whether the boy lived or died.

Lord Stark was held with his men in a tent befitting a lord. He recognized it as Gerion’s. He’d likely stored it on one of the ships he had hired for an event just such as this. 

Stark’s face was frozen, but despite that Tywin could feel that he was raging inside. He almost let a small smile escape. It was good that Stark was angered. He had been angered too, so it was only justice.

“Out,” he commanded, addressing Stark’s men. There were about a half dozen of them from what he could see. When they protested, like the fools they were, his men manhandled them out of the tent. Stark stared at him with eyes of ice the entire time. 

Tywin found all of this entertaining. He sat and beckoned Stark to take a seat across from him. Stark silently refused, preferring to remain standing. Tywin sighed. A stubborn, prideful fool, who mistook stupidity for honor, he reminded himself.

“You have seen the boy?” he asked. 

Stark nodded and finally broke his silence. “How is he?”

“Well,” he replied graciously. “Nursing from what I could see, which I have been told is a good sign.” He considered the Northern lord with hooded eyes. “What are we to do with him?”

For just a moment Stark’s mask crumbled. He cares for the boy already, Tywin thought, amazed. A prideful, stubborn, honorable and sentimental fool, Tywin added to his mental assessment of Stark.

“Give him into my care. I’ll provide for him,” he responded after restoring his icy mask.

Tywin couldn’t help a look of disbelief. “The boy is a threat. While few of those south of the Neck would consider him trueborn, even as a bastard he would be a rallying cry.” He steepled his fingers. “I will do you the courtesy of not killing your nephew out of hand. But I will do my duty and turn him, and the chest, over to Robert.” His heart leapt with triumph when he saw the look of despair cross Stark’s face. “I’m sure our King will know what to do with dragonspawn,” he finished, relishing Stark’s panic.

Stark stood there, silent, as different emotions warred across his face. Tywin enjoyed every moment of it. No matter what happened today, Stark would suffer. 

He knew he had bent him when Stark finally took a seat. “I promised my sister that Jon would live, that I’d protect him,” he said, trying to hide his weakness. 

“Jon? Surely your sister did not name him after your foster father.”

“King Jon Stark. A rather famous King in the North,” was the subdued reply. “She knew the Targaryens had fallen. It was an effort on her part to protect him, to not to burden him with a Targaryen name.”

Tywin could respect that, pathetic as it was. Even a token effort to protect one’s child was to be admired if that was all one could do.

He dismissed a brief surge of respect for the girl. It was irrelevant. “Why would I not turn him over to Robert? It would be treason not to,” he challenged.

Stark hesitated. “I would be in your debt,” he finally said. 

Debt and recompense was something that Tywin understood. “And exactly what would that mean? How would I ensure payment of,” he sneered, “your debt?”

Tywin quite liked the next several hours of conversation. Stark, it turned out, was not a stupid man. He was just not used to thinking in terms of politics. 

“To summarize,” Tywin concluded, raising his hand. “First, you will retract your insult and publicly apologize to me and my House,” he said, raising a finger. He raised a second finger. “Second, you will support Robert wedding Cersei, advocating the many advantages of that union. Third, you will persuade Robert to strip my son of his white cloak but otherwise pardon him for his necessary killing of Aerys,” he continued raising a third finger. “You will support the ascension of my brother, Kevan, to the Small Council, preferably as Master of Laws but some other capacity will do, if not,” a fourth finger going up as he spoke. “Finally, one of your children, of my choice, will wed a Lannister, also of my choice,” he concluded, suppressing a note of triumph, as he raised the last digit of his hand.

Stark nodded his head in weary agreement. “And you promise that you and yours will not betray Jon’s secrets to anyone, and that the boy will be protected and that he’ll live. You will give me my sister’s body. You will allow me to return Dawn to the Daynes, as well as Ser Arthur’s body.”

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Tywin agreed smoothly as he put out his arm. Stark eyed it as if he were eyeing a snake, but he took it, however reluctantly, signaling his acceptance of their agreement.

Stark stood. “I’ll take the boy and my men, and leave you be, Lord Lannister.” There was a tone of finality, of command in his voice as he spoke.

The poor, simple man, Tywin thought. “Of course, Lord Stark. You and your men are free to go,” he said sympathetically. “I trust you will ensure their silence.” Seeing him nod, Tywin smiled in appreciation. “But the boy, and the papers, stay.”

Starks’ brow grew thunderous. “We had an agreement!”

“We did. We do,” he responded placidly. “I will keep his secret. He will be safe and he will live. But he remains in my care to ensure your compliance with our agreement.” He showed his teeth as he smiled, something his face was not used to doing. “I would not want you to slacken in your efforts, thinking the boy was safe with you.”

Stark did not appear to accept that. He radiated anger, his former iciness gone. “I would not dishonor myself,” he said curtly. “I will honor our terms and you will give me my nephew.”

Tywin considered him for a long moment. It never ceased to amaze him the delusions of his peers labored under.

“Regrettable,” Tywin said, sighing as he shook his head. “And here I had thought we had reached an accommodation that would protect the boy.” He stood, matching Stark’s imposing height. “I will send a rider to Robert letting him know what we found and asking for instructions.”

He was half way out of the tent, when Stark called out. “Wait.”

Tywin turned and cocked an eyebrow toward his fellow lord. Stark looked ready to collapse in on himself.

“You’ll protect him? Provide for him? On your very honor?”

Tywin suppressed a smirk. A sennight before, the man was claiming he had no honor. Now he was asking him to pledge himself on his honor. The fool had no memory, or no understanding of consequences, at least.

“Of course,” he replied gravely. “For so long as the North poses no threat to me or mine, I will raise him as my very own. I will even provide periodic updates as to your nephew’s progress.”

He saw a dawning realization appear on the face of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. So long as the North did not act contrary to the interests of the Westerlands, the boy was safe. He was not surprised when Stark agreed. It was what he expected from an unsurpassed, yet honorable fool. 

When Tywin Lannister left the tent, he left a defeated man in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AWP AWP AWP

Tywin watched his acknowledged bastard, Jon Hill, spar with Ser Benedict, the Master of Arms for Casterly Rock. The boy was quick and skilled for his age. At a mere ten name days old he was already sparring with squires a year or two older. 

Such was his talent and drive that his Master of Arms had elected to give him individual lessons now and then, at no prompting from himself. Tywin saw why, as Benedict pressed the boy. The knight was patient but commanding, walking Jon through the desired sequence. The boy did not falter, transitioning seamlessly from offense to defense.

The boy showed considerable intelligence, Tywin thought. He was capable of dividing his attention despite the pressure he was under. He adapted quickly, moving sword and shield as instructed, even as he maintained his balance and proper distance.

Ser Benedict was right. The boy had some natural skill with the weapons, he observed dispassionately. That was good. It reinforced the idea of a family relationship, if the boy followed somewhat in the footsteps of his supposed brother, Jaime, and his uncle, Tygett. 

It also brought honor to his house. The smallfolk and the uninformed would attribute his martial ability to his superior Lannister blood. 

Jon, of course, looked nothing like a Lannister. While Jon was tall, as were all Lannisters except his cursed son, the boy’s build was slender. It was not the robust frame that Tywin and most of his brothers shared. Strangely, Jon’s frame did share some similarities with Jaime and Gerion, so that didn’t attract undue attention.

The boy’s black curls and slate grey eyes did, however, significantly deviate from the usual Lannister coloring of golden hair and green eyes. Tywin had known even as he was riding to the Rock, Jon and in his nurse in tow, that it was a question that would need to be addressed.

Like most problems, the solution was simple. He had dealt with the discrepancy by hiring a dark haired, grey eyed whore and took her as his concubine. 

The whore’s duty was simple. She had to convince the world she was Jon’s mother, a woman of Northern descent with some vague and distant ties to the Stark family. Her looks, coupled with having her take the name Snow, ensured the ploy was a resounding success. 

She was a natural actress and had taken to motherhood as if born to it. Jon had grown considerably attached to her as an infant and toddler, which was understandable as she was the only mother he had ever known. Tywin almost believed the woman reciprocated the boy’s feelings, so convincing was she playing at being a mother. 

Of course, all good prostitutes were accomplished liars. So once her identity had been embedded in the minds of Casterly Rock, he had arranged for an unfortunate riding accident to befall her. 

Tywin admitted he missed her a bit. Not only was she an able bed warmer, she knew her place and was discrete. 

The boy’s weeping was another headache he would have liked to have avoided, but there was no help for it. Anyone who trusted a whore to keep faith was a fool. Tywin Lannister was no fool.

Fortunately, not being privy to the secret, Tyrion had grown very fond of his half brother. As had Jaime, though he had remained somewhat aloof, perhaps because he knew the boy was Rhaegar’s and might someday need to be sacrificed. But between the two of them, they had managed to console the boy. 

Despite Jaime and Tyrion’s efforts, however, Jon had grown more somber and withdrawn after his supposed mother’s death. His former childish good cheer and lightheartedness dimmed almost overnight. 

Gerion had taken pity on the boy. He and Briony had restored something of the boy’s cheer for a brief time. They gave the boy a family life, with Gerion playing at being an involved uncle and Briony accepting him as a surrogate son. When Joy was born, Jon had been genuinely joyful to see his young cousin come into the world. 

Then Gerion vanished on his quest seeking Brightroar, the Lannister’s ancestral Valyrian sword. Once it was unlikely he would return, Tywin had seen to it that Briony was disposed of. Whores were to serve and not be seen. Gerion’s leman had taken far too central a role in his brother’s life at the Rock. That could not be tolerated.

When they vanished, the dark moods and long silences around the boy had increased. Now he only smiled for Joy, his presumed cousin, and even that was forced.

Tywin saw that as a benefit. As Lord of Casterly Rock he had carefully cultivated a grim persona. Jaime was seen as standoffish and arrogant. The boy’s frequent moods and somber demeanor further reinforced the impression of a family resemblance in the mind of the smallfolk. 

When Benedict and Jon put away their swords and shields and moved onto staffs, Tywin thought he had seen enough. His guards followed silently in his wake as he returned to his solar.

In his inner sanctum, he had rows of chests stacked high. Each was carefully labeled. Most contained documents that involved the many Lannister holdings, the income they produced and the service they were pledged to provide. Others contained documents concerning other situations of such import that he felt it was necessary to carefully monitor them. Three small chests concerned Jon.

The first was the chest recovered from the Tower of Joy. Tywin had banded it in steel and had added another lock to that chest. It was kept out of sight. Now it only collected dust. Nothing good could come from revealing its contents. Only a few were aware of its existence and when, if, it should be put to use.

The second contained all documents relevant to Jon Hill. They were scarce, though Tywin had made up the lack by filling it with gold. A note was included bearing his seal indicating that the gold was to be passed on to Jon, his natural son, as an inheritance, in addition to such land as his heir thought appropriate. 

Tywin felt the few thousand dragons it contained would be considered by most as a splendid inheritance for a bastard. Adding a request that a small holding, in his heir’s discretion, be provided his bastard was in keeping with the generosity that was expected of the Lord of Casterly Rock.

The third chest held evidence, real and manufactured, of his long term plan. Calling it a plan, he admitted, overstated matters. In truth it was a mere contingency. 

Tywin thought Stark was an honorable man, foolishly so. It was unlikely he would ever have to reveal the contents of the first chest to Robert. He was reasonably certain that Jon’s true paternity need never see the light of day. It benefitted no one, so long as Stark kept faith.

But Jon had two noble parents. The implications of that seemed to have escaped Stark. The honorable lord would not be Lord of Winterfell forever. His heirs might feel less willing to protect Lyanna’s son. They might forget their father’s commitment and act contrary to the interests of the Westerlands. 

The third chest contained a series of documents purporting to establish that Jon Hill was the trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. Almost all the documents were genuine. The two that were not were still very real, even if they were lies. They would survive even the most skilled scrutiny. 

There had been a very real marriage. And all it would take to convince the world was if certain truths and a few lies were placed on parchment.

The first false document was a marriage contract between the two. The contract had truly been drafted by Grand Maester Pycelle, but only at Tywin’s request. It bore the imprint of his actual seal and his genuine signature. The signatures of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, however, had been added by a particularly talented forger in Tywin’s employ.

The contract was made believable by a letter of explanation written by Grand Maester Pycelle. He described, falsely, how Ashara had come to him weeping, pleading, wanting to become the wife of Brandon Stark. The poor boy was then being held in the Black Cells of the Red Keep. The Dayne girl had visited her lover and become pregnant. Brandon Stark wanted to do the right thing by his love before his inevitable death as a traitor. She had sought Pycelle’s help in a moment of desperation. Hence, despite his better judgement, he had prepared the contract.

The contract and subsequent marriage was further reinforced by another document. It was the truthful, sworn statement of a septon that had been present in the Red Keep at the same time as Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. Lester and Lum had earned themselves a bonus when they discovered the septon’s existence after questioning Rhaegar’s staff. 

He truthfully attested that he had married the two before the Seven, at the request of a distressed and pregnant Ashara Dayne. Two witnesses were identified. One was a knight who had died fighting on the Trident. 

The other, Ethan Glover, had been a companion of Brandon Stark and a fellow occupant of the Black Cells. He still lived. He was the younger brother of the current Lord Glover, and had been one of the half dozen men Gerion had captured in Stark’s company. 

He wondered if he had shared the knowledge that Brandon Stark had married Ashara Dayne with his lord. He rather suspected he had.

Tywin had almost laughed when he became aware that one of Lord Stark’s loyal men knew of Brandon Stark’s marriage to Ashara Dayne and that she had been pregnant. Of course the child had been stillborn, but that truth could be explained away as a self-serving lie to preserve Eddard Stark’s claim to Winterfell.

The crown jewel, however, was the decree, under seal, of the High Septon. Pycelle and he had approached the High Septon with a quandary, the reluctant and guilt ridden septon in tow. 

As a devout follower of the Seven, he’d explained to the High Septon that his conscience was disturbed. He could no longer bear the lie that he had been forced to tell for the benefit of his fellow lord, Eddard Stark. Lord Stark sought to steal a boy’s inheritance, but did not want to become a kinslayer or, in an effort to assuage his conscience, to see him want. Lord Stark had threatened his beloved son with execution for violating his oath as a Kingsguard, unless he took Jon within his family as a bastard and concealed his parentage. 

He sought absolution for this sin and freedom from his oath to keep Jon’s birth secret. He could no longer bear the guilt, even if it displeased the King and likely plunged the kingdom into war.

Supported by cunning Pycelle and the honest, tearful septon, the High Septon had believed everything. He had been aghast. He had also been easily led down the path that the needs of the one, Jon, had to give way to the needs of the many, namely the kingdom’s peace. 

It only took a modest donation to the High Septon’s personal funds to obtain a religious decree granting him and Jaime absolution for all of their sins. Jaime was also relieved from his oath as a Kingsguard, so that Lord Stark would have a more difficult time threatening his son in the future. 

The same document required that they keep Brandon Stark’s marriage to Ashara Dayne, and the birth of their son, Jon, a secret. It would be a terrible thing if the small folk suffered due to the greed of an unscrupulous Northern lord, which was to be expected of a heathen who rejected the Seven. Lord Lannister’s promise that he would see Jon raised properly was enough to assuage any lingering concerns of the High Septon.

The contingency was also helped by the fact that Jon looked very much like a Stark. There was precious little of Rhaegar in his son. All Tywin could detect, after years of searching, was his build and the structure of his bones, but even that was overwhelmed by his Stark coloring. He could foresee a future, even if decades away, where revealing that Jon, or his heirs, were the trueborn Lords of Winterfell would serve the interests of House Lannister.

Tywin hummed as he opened up the third box and read the most recent letter from Lord Stark. Every year for the last decade, he had sent Stark three or four updates as to Jon’s health and development. 

Stark diligently responded. In his responses, he sometimes referred to Jon as his nephew and sometimes as his blood. He never described the precise relationship. That suited Tywin. Those letters were very genuine.

As were Tywin’s letters to Stark, which he was careful to keep copies of. He always referred to Jon as Stark’s nephew. He sometimes reminded Stark of his continued commitment to the oath he gave to keep the peace. He assured him that his nephew would not want for anything. He swore the boy would be raised as close to being the lord he should have been, other than his name. He never referenced any hint as to bastardy, which Stark reciprocated. 

Tywin thought Stark thought he was clever avoiding committing his precise relationship to Jon on paper. Ravens were sometimes intercepted, as most lords with any wit knew. Tywin’s other documents were more than enough to fill in the missing details in a manner which benefited his House.

It pleased Tywin that Stark might be dooming his own heirs with his own words. There was more than one way to destroy a House. Tywin foresaw the day where he or his heirs might use this collection of parchment to destroy the Starks every bit as thoroughly as he had destroyed the Reynes and Tarbecks. 

Even if they avoided being deposed, which Tywin thought likely, many would believe that Jon’s claim to Winterfell was true. Especially among those who followed the Seven or were particularly attached to Brandon Stark. House Stark’s reputation would be in tatters. Jon would forever be a dagger posed to strike at the legitimacy of Stark’s heirs.

No one insulted the Lannisters and escaped his vengeance, Tywin thought smugly.

He carefully penned another report to Stark. He was quite pleased with it.

Lord Stark,

You should be pleased to know that your nephew, Jon, remains in good health. He is growing rapidly. He is a tall, strong boy, polite and attentive to his duty. His parents would be well pleased with him.

His maester is impressed with his wit. His studies proceed apace. He is particularly gifted in High Valyrian, which is understandable considering his high birth.

Ser Benedict has informed me that Jon is a prodigy with a sword. Considering his father, that should not surprise either one of us. He is progressing well in his other martial pursuits. He recommends that I send him away to squire with a knight of renown. Obviously, sending him to the North is out of the question, as is King’s Landing. The risk of detection is too high. 

I would like your advice. My son, Ser Jaime, might serve but as his putative brother that would reflect poorly on the boy. He is also a bit fond of him, though he would never admit it. I fear he might coddle him. If I do not hear from you, I may approach Lord Randall Tarly.

While I regret keeping secrets from the boy, I do not regret serving as his surrogate father. Even labeled a bastard, he brings honor to my House. He will want for nothing, I assure you. 

I remain committed to my oath and keeping the King’s Peace.

Tywin of House Lannister  
Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West.

After a quick review, he made a copy. He would need to wait before impressing his seal. 

Jaime was his heir. Tywin did his best to involve him in the managing of the Rock. This included his many schemes, though Jaime professed to lack any interest in them. Still, he had to be given the opportunity to add his comments. Only after would the original be sent by the maester in charge of the ravens.

When he was done, he rang a small bell on his work table. A page entered. 

“Have my son attend me,” he ordered.

“Which one, my lord?” the boy asked. 

It was, Tywin later realized, a perfectly innocent question. The page was new and untrained. It did not prevent him from unleashing his temper, to his later regret.

He demanded the knight in charge of his household present himself. He then explained, in great detail, why the page was not suited to his service. He professed shock that his household steward would let such a young fool through his door. By the time he was done, the page was reduced to tears and the knight was pale. They fled his presence.

It was only sometime later that his true son, Jaime, attended him. By that time, Tywin had mastered his temper. It was ill advised for a lord such as he to appear angry. Enemies were everywhere, he reminded himself. Visible anger was a weakness that could be exploited.

“Jaime, please sit,” he requested. He made it a point to keep his voice impassive and expression flat. It was the closest he would come to being welcoming.

“Good afternoon, father,” his heir said snidely. Like the missing Gerion and the regrettably deceased Tygett, Jaime appeared to delight in tormenting Tywin. They did nothing to outwardly defy him, of course, but they played a thousand petty games to express their defiance. 

It was very childish in Tywin’s opinion. His brothers and son had an excess of pride and resented their place in the hierarchy that existed within the Rock. But so long as they obeyed, however reluctantly, their blood protected them from his wrath. He breathed deeply in an effort to stay calm.

“Good afternoon, Jaime,” he returned. He pushed the original of the letter to Stark across the table toward his son. “If you have any additions, now is the time.”

Jaime glanced at it briefly. He added a brief line. Tywin looked it over. As usual, it was a succinct statement as to what he needed to do to better himself in the training yard. In this instance, Jon needed more practice using his shield as a weapon. 

He made a note of Jaime’s hand written comment on the copy. He impressed his seal upon both before ringing the bell. The page to enter the room was one of his usual. He silently accepted the original missive and left for the ravenry.

“Is there anything else, father?” he sounded impatient. 

Tywin observed his son dispassionately. Almost a decade had passed since he had been removed from the Kingsguard. Jaime had resisted, even threatening to take the Black. To his surprise, Cersei had supported her brother, forgetting her duty to their House.

It mattered not. With Stark aggressively pushing for his removal, Robert had stripped the cloak from his son in an instant.

Fortunately, Cersei had convinced Jaime to give up on his threat to take the Black. Still, Jaime had been petulant ever since, spending more time in King’s Landing, or competing in frivolous tournaments, than the Rock. The foolishness of his children had never ceased to amaze him. 

Tywin had enough of their games. “When will you take a wife?”

Jaime stared across the table at him. Tywin was vaguely impressed. It was an imperious thing, reeking of arrogance. It was also the stare of a boy, not a man, which irked Tywin to no end.

“Why father, what need do I have for a son?” he asked with a sneer. “I have a trueborn brother, a surviving uncle, and numerous trueborn cousins. I even have a bastard brother. If pressed, I could ask the king to legitimize him. What do you say?”

Tywin sighed. Jaime had been shocked when informed that Jon was Rhaegar’s. It was a secret known only to his brothers, of whom only Kevan now remained, and his heir. 

Jaime had not opposed protecting the boy. He had not opposed his establishing the contingency, reasoning it might allow the boy to regain almost everything he was due by birth but had been deprived of due to Stark’s rebellion. Despite his agreement, he still delighted in throwing Jon in his face at any given opportunity.

He ignored his son’s japes, which were so like Gerion’s, and fixed him with his lord’s stare. He was pleased to see him shift uncomfortably. He had been doing this far longer than his disappointment of a son. “I have given thought to your marriage. I have also been given thought to the harm Tyrion causes this family’s reputation.”

Jaime sat up, suddenly attentive. “Tyrion harms no one,” he protested.

Tywin refused to blink, even as he allowed his fingers to tap the table. “He publicly visits brothels. He spends his days drunk. He gambles. Poorly, I might add. He insults our guests. He drags our name through the mud. In the absence of you providing an heir, he is second in line to inherit. That I cannot abide.”

His son, who looked like a man but acted like a boy, had the audacity to shrug. “It is as the gods decree,” he said with a smile, as he slouched back into his chair.

He returned the smile. It was an unusual event, and he was pleased to see Jaime’s falter. “Aye, it is. It is truly unfortunate that your brother frequently commits a variety of misdemeanors.” He searched through a stack of papers, pulling out a recent report from the Lannisport Watch. “Not five days ago, he was found pissing off the city wall, obviously drunk, and singing badly. When challenged, he threw his boot at the watchmen.” He put the report down. “Public indecency. Disturbing the King’s Peace. Assault on a man of the Watch. If convicted, and he would be as I would be sitting in judgment, I could send him to the Wall.”

Jaime paled. “You would not dare.”

Tywin slammed his hand on the table, standing. “I dare many things, boy!” he roared. Jaime flinched backward, to Tywin’s inner delight.

His son swallowed heavily. He visibly collected himself. “And you mention this to me why?” 

His effort to appear detached was pathetic. He needed to spend more time under my tutelage, and less in King’s Landing or wandering off to tournaments, Tywin decided.

“Because I am not by nature cruel or unreasonable,” he replied. He ignored Jaime’s look of disbelief. “Tyrion cannot stay second in line to inherit. If need be, I will have him removed.” He stared hard at Jaime. “Or you could, within the year, take a wife. I would have less need to act against Tyrion, if you put a child in her belly.”

“And if I do, will you leave Tyrion be?” 

To Tywin, his son’s voice sounded weak and detached. He despised it, but he would take advantage. “If you marry, and father an heir and a spare, I will let Tyrion continue his merry way undisturbed for the rest of his days.” He steepled his fingers. “If you delay, I promise you that in a year and a day, Tyrion will find himself on a ship to the Wall.”

Jaime stood abruptly. Anger was radiating from his body. “As you say father. I will find a wife.” He turned and headed to the door, a storm cloud over his head. 

Tywin let him go just until he reached the door. “Son,” he called out dispassionately. “We are not done here.” He gestured to the stack of parchment and numerous scrolls on the table. “If you are to be my heir, you need to learn. Sit down, before I lose what patience I have and shorten the time you have to save your brother.”

His beautiful boy stood there for a long while, looking at him as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Tywin kept his gaze level, his face serene. He knew he had won the moment Jaime let him know he cared for Tyrion enough to marry to save him. 

He watched patiently as Jaime came back to the table, slowly, reluctantly. He was like a small boy, dragging his heels before doing his chores. 

When he sat at the table before him, he almost smiled. “That was not so difficult, was it?” he asked mildly.

He could see Jaime’s jaw grinding. He sighed quietly. He wondered why his son could not be as attentive to his duty as his pretend bastard. 

Jaime had better give him a grandson who was better prepared to do his duty soon. Otherwise, he would teach both his sons a lesson in what it meant to be a Lannister.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made.

AWP AWP AWP

“It’s like dancing, Sam,” Jon said encouragingly. “Look.” With that, Jon engaged in a series of short steps, backward and forward, left to right and then back again, slowly revolving around the training post. 

Unlike his normal practice, Jon was careful not to strike the post as he moved. Sam liked to pretend that he was especially timid. So much so that it had almost become a reality. Any effort to make him simulate fighting would cause him to withdraw into himself and collapse. 

Sam looked at him skeptically. “It doesn’t look much like dancing to me, Jon. It looks like a post drill. I’d rather sample the wheel of cheese that grandmother sent from Red Lake.” He dropped the tourney sword he’d been holding. “Would you like to join me? You can practice the flower language with Talla.”

Jon suppressed a shudder. The language of flowers made no sense. Was there really that big of a difference in meaning between a white or yellow carnation? Or what hand it was delivered with? His head hurt just thinking about it.

“Sam, bear with me,” he pleaded. “Pretend it’s a dance. You don’t need to hold your sword. You're not even wearing armor.” Jon had made sure that Sam wasn’t wearing armor as part of this exercise. He hoped if he was wearing his soft clothes he’d be more willing to pretend it was a dance, and not sword practice.

Sam looked hesitant, but with Jon’s cajoling he began the sequence. To Jon’s delight, he was doing it. 

“Excellent, Sam,” he cried encouragingly. “You’ve got it.” And he did. Sam was moving from one stance to another with no problem whatsoever, despite his bulk. 

Jon had a hard time keeping a smile off his face watching his friend. Despite their many differences, they had become close friends over the four years he’d squired for Randall Tarly, Sam’s father. 

Sam was a disappointment to his father. He was an obese, self-confessed coward. He avoided training at arms, going so far as to collapse and blubber if forced to participate. He despised swimming, riding, hunting, falconry and fishing. Any of the manly arts, really. He wept at the sight of blood. While all that all might be true, Jon conceded, he thought that Sam was brilliant.

Growing up in Casterly Rock, Jon had learned the proper forms of address and the correct courtesies. He’d learned to ride, and fight, and care for his horses, arms and armor. He’d even learned to read, write, to do some simple arithmetic, and the heraldry of the Seven Kingdoms. 

To his aged maester’s surprise, he’d even shown an aptitude for languages. He’d mastered a fair bit of High Valyrian and the Old Tongue, not that he thought either would ever be useful. Though it did let him show off to Sam when he had trouble with a particularly hard passage in one of his dusty old tomes.

What he had not learned was how to sing or dance. He learned nothing of the harp, lute, or any other instrument. He knew no poetry. He didn’t pay attention to the songs or histories. He did not know how to dress as a gentleman, the language of flowers, or how to woo a lady at a feast. 

All of these things, Sam’s mother, Lady Melessa, insisted was necessary to know if one was to be a great knight and lord. Without knowing them, a man was just a warrior. It was the courtesies and chivalry which distinguished a knight from a mere brute. 

Jon had to admit what she said made a certain amount of sense.

Jon had every intention of being a great knight. Greater even than his trueborn brother, Ser Jaime. He spent every free hour in the practice yard or on horseback, training and sparring with that goal in mind. 

He also hoped to someday even become a lord, even if only of a small holdfast. His lord father had mentioned the possibility, if he was attentive to his duty. So he turned his attention to those lessons Lady Melessa insisted he needed to learn.

Except how to dress as a gentleman. House Lannister’s colors were red and gold and that was good enough for him. If he was being particularly daring, he might wear black and grey. Which he preferred, though he’d only admit it under extreme duress. Besides, he thought striped hose and shoes with curling toes made the wearers look like jesters.

Unfortunately, unlike skill at arms, most of the soft skills and courtesies of a knight proved difficult for him to master. He hated dancing and poetry. He knew he was a poor singer, though Talla, Sam’s sister, insisted that he was a fine tenor. The language of flowers seemed utterly frivolous, not to mention frightfully ambiguous. Wooing a lady at a feast or a dance seemed unnecessary. He could just win a tournament like his brother and crown his lady the Queen of Love and Beauty. 

The only one of the soft skills he proved adept at was the harp and lute, though he also demonstrated a small talent with the bells, flute and reed pipes. He disliked playing, however. Sam’s mother, sisters and the other ladies always insisted on making such a fuss over it. It was disconcerting and embarrassing.

Regardless, he was not a quitter. If he had to master them, he would. Sam had proven very helpful in those areas he struggled with. He could now almost dance an entire song without stepping on Talla’s toes thanks to Sam’s efforts. 

Talla certainly appreciated it. He blushed as he remembered the chaste kiss she’d planted on his cheek when her mother had been distracted. Sam had seen them though, but looked the other way.

He wondered if Sam was suppressing his rage at the memory. He doubted it. His friend was far too calm and accepting. 

He found it strange. He felt anger stirring in his breast at the mere thought of some rude squire doing the same to Joy, his cousin. She was like a sister to him. He’d bloody the nose and loosen the teeth of anyone taking such liberties. 

He didn’t understand how Sam could avoid leaping to protect his sister’s virtue. He needed to do something, even if it was only some hard words. The scoundrels of the world needed to be reminded that their ladies were protected.

His father would call his son’s lack of reaction cowardice, if he chose to acknowledge it at all. Jon knew that was untrue. Everyone overemphasized his friend’s supposed cowardice. He couldn’t help but think it took a strange kind of courage to so readily admit that one was a coward. 

After all, if a man could be brave one way, he could be brave in others. The path to realize that bravery might vary from man to man, but it was there. Sam just didn’t like weapons. He hoped to coax Sam out of his shell, and achieve with gentle persuasion what Lord Tarly had failed to do with harsh commands.

Or bull’s blood, chains, women’s clothing or a variety of other techniques Lord Tarly had employed. When Sam had described his father’s efforts to make a warrior out of him in his strangely matter of fact tone, Jon realized the common denominator, his father’s preferred tool, was fear or humiliation. 

Inspiring fear was useful for many things, he remembered his own father once saying, but it wasn’t the solution to every problem. Too much fear deadened a man’s senses and made him worthless. It was often better to lead men by appealing to their self-interest or pride. 

Sometimes it was even best to inspire men with love, though doing so was a chancey thing. Men would do many things if they feared the consequences of not doing them, but they’d do anything for love. 

Which was a problem. Lord Tywin had warned him that love was a double edged sword. A heart was a difficult thing to control; it could induce a good man to both betrayal and loyalty. 

Jon thought that his lord father was a wise man.

Sam seemed to be gaining in confidence, so Jon took the other side of the post and mirrored Sam’s movements. It was a strange dance they engaged in. Jon was armed and armored, including wearing a gambeson packed with sand instead of down for added weight. Sam was not. Still, their bodies moved in a simulated duel, even if Sam was treating it as a dance. Jon hoped Sam could build on this and possibly win his father’s favor someday.

Jon knew he could do it. Some of the dances Sam had mastered were bewildering in their complexity. He hoped that if Sam would consent to learn the foot drills, he could gradually teach him rest, building one skill set atop of the other. 

Anyone could learn the basics of cut and thrust. Good footwork and tempo was what separated champions from a peasant levy.

They’d been at it for ten minutes when Sam began to slow. He was too heavy of a boy and constant motion drained him. Jon wanted to continue for the full hour the drill usually required, but he knew if he pushed too hard Sam would just collapse and refuse to get up. For a supposed coward, he was strangely immune to a threat of a beating if he quit early. Jon didn’t bother to try.

Small steps, he reminded himself. Perhaps it would be better to encourage Sam to practice archery or axe throwing before putting a tourney blade in his hand.

Sam came to a rest. His face was covered in sweat. He grimaced as he sniffed under his arm pit. “Jon, I’m tired,” he panted. “I need a bath and a meal.” He looked at Jon expectantly. “Will you join mother and I in her solar this evening? Talla and the girls would love to hear you play the harp.”

Jon hesitated. He had intended to talk one of the guardsmen into an evening spar. But Sam had made progress and he wanted it to continue.

He knew he couldn’t make Sam practice out of fear. He’d tried and failed. Which he thought was yet more evidence against him being a coward. Appealing to his pride and his love of his family, his duty to protect them, also failed. Time to try an appeal to his self-interest.

“I was going to spar with a guardsman after the evening meal,” he said slowly, as if thinking. “But I wouldn’t mind an hour or two of music.” He gave Sam a hopeful look. “I can skip evening practice, if you’ll practice with me tomorrow afternoon.”

The training yard was normally open in the afternoon, except for the singletons who wanted extra practice, like Jon. Lord Tarly insisted that his knights, squires and armsmen all train in the morning hours until the sun stood high. While he often let them practice as individuals, he sometimes had them train as a unit, doing maneuvers, transitioning from line, to column, to square, both on horse and on foot. 

Just this morning he’d ordered them to form two opposing shield walls and press against one another. Each side was ordered to try to gain ground as a unit while maintaining their line. 

It had been more tiring that Jon had anticipated. He looked forward to doing it again.

Sam hadn’t been present. Lord Tarly had not even asked where his eldest son and heir was at, which worried Jon. Randall Tarly did not accept defeat. If he was not forcing Sam into the yard, then that meant he had some other plan in mind.

Sam frowned. “I’m not interested in these drills, Jon. I’m no good at these things. I don’t even know why I’m here now.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Because I agreed to muck your horse's stall for you,” Jon reminded him drily. Sam did his best to avoid all things associated with his horse, including riding and feeding but most especially grooming and cleaning. 

Sam had the good grace to blush as he looked away. “Hmm,” he murmured in embarrassment. “I remember, Jon. My statement was intended to be rhetorical.”

Jon decided to be blunt. “And my offer was intended to be transactional. For every hour we do the things you like, you’ll spend an hour doing the things I like.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “That’s part of friendship, Sam. Doing things we don’t necessarily like but our friends do, so we humor them.”

Sam’s face fell. “I thought you enjoyed spending time with mother and the girls.” He sounded like a hurt child.

Jon knew Lord Tywin would make a scathing comment if he were in his shoes. But his father didn’t care if Sam became a warrior or not. Jon did. Friends protected friends, even from themselves.

“I do, sometimes,” he replied patiently. “I even like playing the harp,” he admitted. “The rest of it can be exhausting. Don’t you get tired of all the giggling?”

His friend shrugged. “Not really. I find it relaxing and fun.” He looked at Jon with some disappointment. Jon thought he was on the verge of tears, which made him uncomfortable. “Does this mean you won’t be joining us? Mother says you still need practice.”

Jon noticed Sam still had not responded to his offer. It was just like his friend. He avoided answering directly when he wanted to say no. He refused to lose his temper over it. It wouldn’t help. He’d make another effort.

“I do, Sam. Just as you need to be seen practicing in the yard if you want to avoid your lord father’s wrath. I was hoping we could help each other.” He tried to sound despondent, like Garin the Great when he was caged by the dragonlords. The play acting the girls sometimes insisted on served a purpose after all, he thought with amusement. 

His friend looked guilty. “That’s not fair, Jon. I have no talent as a warrior. It’s a waste of time. You’re good at both swords and singing. Father would doubtless prefer you as a son.” Sam looked bitter for a moment, which vanished in a flash, followed by even more guilt. “I don’t want to be a burden.” His eyes begin to get wet.

Jon was horrified. Please gods, don’t let him start weeping. “You are no burden, Sam,” he said quickly to forestall any tears, as he put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s do this,” he offered. “For every hour I practice with you, you spend an half hour practicing with me. Agreed?”

Sam hesitated, but then nodded reluctantly in agreement, before heading to change, his heels dragging and his head down. Jon was just grateful that his friend hadn’t burst into tears.

Moments later, when he was just beginning to collect the practice swords and making sure the yard was as organized as he found it, he heard a gravelly voice call out, “Boy.”

Jon looked up and he saw Lord Tarly standing in the shadows, just off the stables. Jon quickly dropped the swords and made a hasty bow. “Lord Tarly,” he greeted anxiously. How long had he been there?

“Jon,” he returned civilly. Or as civilly as Lord Tarly was known for, which wasn’t much. Randall Tarly had a reputation for directness which bordered on rudeness. 

Jon was uncomfortable as the knight he squired for seemed to be engaged in a minute inspection of him, as if looking to unravel some mystery. Jon stood tall and looked his lord in the eye. Lord Tarly despised weakness. He was fond of assigning extra drills and back breaking training to his squires if he detected any.

Randall Tarly seemed to find what he was looking for. He grunted in satisfaction.

“You’re trying to help Sam.” It was a statement, not a question so Jon remained silent, standing rigidly at attention.

Tarly had a far away look in his eye, as if he was considering something. His eyes regained their focus. “I don’t believe it will work. He played you like a fiddle.” 

“My lord?” he asked questioningly. Lord Tarly had obviously heard most, if not all, of their conversation. He didn’t know how he took from it that Sam manipulated him when he was quite clearly manipulating Sam.

Lord Tarly seemed amused. “Two for one?” He snorted. “Like a fiddle,” he repeated to himself. He turned his attention back to Jon, ignoring his squire’s steadily reddening face. “It won’t work, but I commend you for your effort. I’ll give you a year, but no more.”

Jon was confused. He pushed back the thought that Sam had played him, when he thought he was playing Sam. He’d consider it later. At the moment he needed a clear head. “A year, lord? Why a year? And for what?” 

He knew questioning Lord Tarly was a dicey proposition. But they weren’t in company and he seemed to be in a talkative mood. Unlike his usual foreboding presence, which discouraged casual conversation. 

Randall Tarly expected unquestioning obedience and was quick to assign remedial training for those who were slow to give it. Like carrying a bag packed with stones up and down a hill for an entire day. Jon still remembered that punishment. His arms and legs had burned for days afterwards. Jon re-enacted it regularly whenever he was given a day off.

“Because in a year, if Sam cannot demonstrate that he can be trusted as heir to Horn Hall, he’ll be taking the Black. I won’t allow him to imperil Dickon’s inheritance.” His eyes bore into Jon’s. “You won’t be sharing that with anyone. Not Sam, not my wife, not anyone. Understood?”

Jon froze, then answered “yes, my lord” before Lord Tarly had reason to make an issue of it. As a direct command, honor required that he obey his sworn lord, though he hated the thought of betraying his friend with his silence.

His mind was a confused mess. He needed to clear his thoughts if he were to fix this. His father had constantly repeated to him that only a fool reacted without thought, without considering the problem from all angles. And a foolish knight, a foolish lord, often became a dead man or, worse, led his House to shame and disaster.

He knew about the Night’s Watch, of course. The songs and stories made them sound like brave and noble knights protecting the realms of men from untold, fanciful threats north of the Wall. His father had told him the truth, however. It was the place where rebels, murderers, rapists, thieves, poachers and others who were simply too inconvenient to kill were sent. It did not sound like a place where Sam would prosper, or even survive.

Lord Tarly had not dismissed him, so he decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Besides, he saw two flaws in Lord Tarly’s plan. “Why not a maester or a septon, lord? He would rise high as either, and would have to give up his name and inheritance. And I think he would only embarrass your family name if he were to take the Black.”

“You would have me condemn my son to a life on his knees as a septon? A Tarly on his knees? It isn’t to be borne,” he almost growled. Jon saw him collect his breath, obviously mastering his temper, which surprised him. Lord Tarly rarely avoided venting his wrath. “And my son as a maester would shame my House. Tarlys are warriors, not grey rats.” 

He remained at attention as Lord Tarly’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a clever boy, Jon. The black brothers are at least warriors, no matter how common. A life, or death, on the Wall would at least bring some honor to my House. Tell me how Sam going to the Wall would shame me and House Tarly?”

Jon swallowed. While Sam admitted being a coward, and his father thought him a coward, anyone else saying so was possibly foolhardy. 

Besides, the thought of saying it troubled his conscience. He didn’t think Sam was a coward. He just despised blood and violence. Sam wanted to live his life his way, and neither Jon nor Lord Tarly would make him be anything other than true to his own self. His behavior was just the shield he used to put off his father.

Jon thought Sam was being foolish. Having the courage of your convictions was one thing. But being so stubborn that you cut off your own nose to spite your face was another. Jon thought that it again proved that Sam had a kind of reckless courage. He’d admire it, if it wasn’t so self-destructive.

“My lord,” Jon said carefully. “Sam calls himself a coward. He falls to the ground and sobs if he’s hit in the practice yard.” Jon saw Sam’s father was still looking at him impassively, so gaining confidence, he continued. “The black brothers are tasked to fight. If Sam were in a battle, I fear how he’d react. He might die in a way that shames your House. And while the Wall is far away, it’s still part of the realm.” Jon remembered his father once saying that a little flattery cost nothing and might achieve more than gold. “Your name is renowned. The manner of his death would certainly work its way south and might bring shame to your name.” 

Jon shrugged, finally breaking his rigid attention. “I made the mistake of assuming that you’d prefer that Sam give up his name so he could no longer shame it, and be sent far away to Oldtown, where many lords have sent their sons to be forgotten.” He bowed. “My apologies, my lord.”

He felt a prickling dread up his spine and tried to ignore the sweating of his palms. He’d much rather face a man steel in hand, than engage in a battle of wits with a Tarly. According to Lord Tarly, he’d already lost one today to Sam. He feared that meant he’d doubtless lose to his father as well.

To Jon’s surprise, Lord Tarly chuckled. That wasn’t something he did. Or smile. Wait, that wasn’t true, Jon corrected himself. Lord Tarly did smile and laugh with his wife and daughters, and sometimes with his youngest son, Dickon. He just never did with his men, including Jon, or Sam.

“You have your father’s wit, boy. That’s not necessarily a good thing.” He gestured at the yard. “Clean the mess then get a meal. I believe you are playing for my wife and daughters this evening. Don’t be late.” He turned and Jon watched him walk away before he stopped again to look back. “One year,” he repeated, his face grim, before vanishing into the great hall.

AWP AWP AWP

AN: Please keep in mind that this is 14/15 year old Jon’s POV and his opinions as to what Sam, Randall, etc… mean and/or are motivated by. He’s not a mind reader and has not spent a year at the Wall fighting the undead with Sam.

AN: I hope readers got the sense that Sam was manipulating Jon, just as Jon was trying to manipulate him, to get a better deal, even if it’s from Jon’s POV and Jon didn’t know it. We know Sam isn’t stupid and is capable of being an excellent plotter, such as when he engineered Jon’s election as Lord Commander in canon. Jon is clever, but he’s not Sam clever.

AN: I know that Barbrey Dustin is the one that describes maesters as grey rats. I’m assuming she’s not alone in this opinion.

AN: The Victorians had a well developed flower code which they used to speak with one another to get around the strict rules of decorum. Asking for a rendezvous with your would be lover was crass; asking with flowers was class. It also gave rise to a lot of hilarious misunderstandings. I visualize the Reach as being like medieval Aquitaine in the movies; pleasantly warm, sunny, hundreds of miles of farmland, vineyards, hills and forests, castles, tourneys, fairs, balls, minstrels, etc…. I thought it made sense that the Reach would have something similar to the language of flowers to get around the strictures of the Seven, considering their society and heraldry.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made.

AN: This is the last of the chapters that I think I can convert from the original Ser Jon premise. Also, Ghost is in this story but he and Jon have not physically met yet.

AWP AWP AWP

Jon stood vigil in the sept, the evening before Lord Tarly was to knight him. Though standing was a blatant deception, he mused as he shifted uncomfortably. Instead, he was supposed to spend the evening hours on his knees contemplating his life and what it meant to become a knight. 

He considered the Seven, all aspects of the One god. His father had ensured that he was well versed in the Faith, though Jon found it boring. 

Unusually, he had also ensured that he understood the old ways. He claimed it was to honor the memory of his deceased mother, Sara Snow. 

Jon was skeptical. His father was not a sentimental man. Neither was he particularly religious. 

Lord Lannister’s view on religion was to pay due respect to the gods, all of them, old and new. He made sure the sept at Casterly Rock was dazzling with its gold and jewels. He ensured the Stone Garden, the weirwood at Casterly Rock, was left unmolested, as the old gods demanded. 

His father did his duty to the gods. In return, he expected them to go about their business and leave him and his alone.

The gods had enough to do making sure the sun rose and set, and the seasons came and went, he claimed. They didn’t need to be distracted by the selfish prayers of men, who, more often than not, could solve their own problems if they simply bestirred themselves.

The older Jon became, the more he found himself agreeing with his father. Praying to the gods did no harm, but it did precious little good either. He begrudged the time wasted in prayer, when he could instead be doing something useful.

But still, he prayed because it was his duty. He mechanically went through the litany suggested by the septon. He prayed for courage, strength, mercy, all of the seven knightly virtues, each corresponding to an aspect of the Seven. 

Once done, he did it again as was his duty. Seven times was he to make the formulastic prayer, addressing each of the Seven in turn. After, he was to spend the rest of the evening in silent contemplation.

Personally, he thought he preferred the rites of the old gods as he shifted his focus to the Maiden. The old gods left you alone so long as an occasional murderer or rapist was sacrificed and their entrails hung from the branches of a weirwood tree. It was a bloodier but much simpler transaction.

In a weird way, despite never having done so, the thought of watering a weirwood with blood did not disturb him. His dreams were almost always now filled with blood, a wolf’s fangs and claws tearing at prey he stalked through a huge primordial forest. Sometimes he thought he was going mad when he woke with the taste of blood in his mouth where none was present.

He was careful not to mention his dreams to anyone, not even Sam. It was one thing to have the occasional strange dream filled with blood. It might even be considered properly warlike and knightly. It was quite another to have those dreams almost every evening, seeing out of the eyes of a wolf. 

It disturbed him when his wolf dreams encouraged him to develop a taste for even rawer meat. He initially resisted, but the well cooked meat tasted like ash and he began to give in to his baser preferences. He could only imagine what others might think, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

His prayers done, he pushed aside distracting thoughts of blood, weirwoods and wolves, and considered his life as a good knight should. Despite being a bastard, he had received many blessings. His father was a great lord, a wise lord. Tywin Lannister was a name that even brave men feared. He had the benefit of serving as Randall Tarly’s squire for seven years. Lord Tarly might be a martinet, but many considered him the best warleader in the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon acknowledged his many blessings. He’d enjoyed great opportunities due to the accident of his birth. There was little that had been denied him, despite being a bastard and a child born of sin.

Other than deaths in his family, including the mother he had only the vaguest memories of, he’d really only suffered two great disappointments. The first was with his friend, Samwell Tarly. He thought they’d been making great progress. Sam learned his footwork. He’d taught Sam to learn to use a shield, though he’d still fall to the ground and cry if it was hit too hard. Despite this, Jon thought Sam’s defensive technique had been excellent. He had even begun practicing with a bow and throwing axe.

He’d been hopeful when a year came and went and Lord Tarly did nothing to remove Sam. He’d continued working with his friend, making incremental improvements. Sam would never react well to the sight of blood, or actually engage in a full spar. But he thought with time Sam could have mastered the fundamentals of war, even if he’d never actually put them into practice.

He’d thought he’d begrudge the time spent training Sam. He didn’t. To his surprise, he found that teaching Sam also helped him improve. He’d begun considering why something was done so he could explain it properly to his curious friend, rather than just blindly repeating what he’d been told. 

He’d also honored his deal with Sam, as Sam knew he would. A Lannister always pays his debts, after all. Thanks to the additional time, he’d improved greatly with those soft courtesies that Lady Melessa insisted he had to learn. But those were less important so he didn’t give them much thought. 

Even if the ladies often cried when he harped and sang. He thought they were just playing at being soft hearted and dramatic. He found it entirely too frivolous. Like learning the Old Tongue, he saw no useful purpose for it.

As the second anniversary of his conversation with Lord Tarly approached, he’d been surprised when Lord Tarly suddenly announced that Sam would be going to Oldtown to forge his chain. Jon thought he must have discussed it with his family in advance, as Sam hadn’t looked surprised. Instead, he’d looked relieved. Lady Melessa and Sam’s sisters had been proud. 

Jon couldn’t but help feel that he’d failed his friend.

Sam hadn’t seen it that way. He told Jon that his father had taken him hunting, just the two of them, and gave him the choice between taking the black and becoming a maester. He also told Sam that he should thank Jon for him being given that choice. 

Sam confessed he’d been deliriously happy with the conversation he’d had with his father. Not only was becoming a maester his dream, his father had treated him as an actual person. 

Then his father had extracted the beating heart from the still living stag he’d brought down. His arm had been covered in blood up to its elbow. He told Sam that if he failed to forge his chain, if he failed to take a maester’s oath, his choice was the black or a fatal hunting accident. As he spoke, he’d taken a large bite from the raw, pulsating muscle, his eyes locked on Sam.

That’s when Sam’s joy turned to terror, he’d admitted. He had every intention of forging his chain as rapidly as possible he’d assured his father. Lord Tarly’s only response was a grim, “see that you do.”

His second disappointment was Talla. Lord Tarly had bluntly asked him if he would take her as his wife if the opportunity arose. Jon had been shocked at the question. 

When he gave it some thought, he’d come to the conclusion that she’d make a wonderful wife. They got along well, she was intelligent, and she was pretty in an earthy sort of way. More importantly, she giggled far less than the other girls. Speaking with her was not as headache inducing as the other ladies in Lady Melissa’s household.

She was also skilled at playing the flute. Jon found it relaxing when they sat together, their music, his strings and her air, combining in melodies with no spoken word. He sometimes spent hours in her company, doing nothing but play, though it was hard to find private spots where they could. Too many liked to crowd them and demanded songs they liked, spoiling their private moments.

Jon would also confess, if pressed, that he very much enjoyed dancing with her. She just felt right in his arms as they spun their way around Horn Hill’s great hall. He hardly ever stepped on her toes now.

He’d cautiously admitted to Lord Tarly that he’d be proud to take Lady Talla as his wife, but he was too far below her in status. He was just a bastard squire. He also lacked the means to support her and their children if they married. He had no lands. If he was someday knighted the only skill that he could convert to gold was to sell his sword. A bastard sellsword knight was not a fit husband for a Tarly daughter.

Lord Tarly had agreed. Which is why he wrote Lord Lannister and asked that the king be petitioned to legitimize Jon and that he be granted lands. Randall Tarly being the man he was, he bluntly suggested Castamere.

Jon thought Sam’s father had aimed too high. Lord Lannister had often stated that he might grant a small holding to Jon someday. But Jon knew he’d never grant a fief as wealthy as Castamere to a mere bastard. He was too clever a lord for that. 

While Jon would never act against his siblings, Castamere was rich. His descendants might cause trouble if he were made too strong.

As Jon feared, a raven arrived within the week rejecting the proposal. It contained a counter-offer suggesting that Talla be paired with his second son, Tyrion. 

Lord Tarly had rejected that out of hand. His daughter would never marry a creature as foul as the Imp, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

Duty compelled Jon to come to his older brother’s rescue. He informed Lord Tarly that Tyrion was actually highly intelligent and very kind. Even so, he was still relieved when Lord Tarly restated his refusal, despite assigning Jon extra training for back talk.

Jon didn’t mind the extra training. Lord Tarly never gave senseless tasks. Everything he did, he did with purpose, and with an eye toward improving his men. Jon would be disobedient more often, if he didn’t think it would hurt his father’s reputation.

Just before he’d left for Oldtown, Sam told him that Lord Tarly respected Jon. He thought he had potential and would make a fine goodson. He had been at least willing to inquire whether he might become a suitable husband for Talla. According to Sam, Lord Tarly had been as disappointed as Talla when Lord Lannister rejected his proposal.

Sam had seemed on the verge of tears when he’d blubbered that he was sad that Jon and he would only be friends and not brothers. Jon had felt compelled to reassure his friend that marriage or not, they were brothers in all the way that mattered. Fortunately, that had staved off another crying fit.

After, Randall Tarly informed Jon that he’d be knighted the following year. Which is why he found himself standing vigil, which was actually kneeling his knees reminded him, with his thoughts wandering.

“Jon,” he heard a hushed voice come from behind him and to the side. 

He looked up, craning his neck over his shoulder. Talla stood there in a darkened alcove. He recognized it as concealing the small, narrow corridor that led to the Tarly family’s personal quarters. 

He frowned. She should not be here and that corridor should be guarded.

“Talla, what are you doing?” he whispered. He looked worriedly over her shoulder.

She saw his glance and gave him a mischievous smile. “Dustin found an unattended flagon of spiced cider. He has a weakness for the stuff.” She wrinkled her nose which Jon found enchanting. He knew she liked cider and spiced wine in moderation, but spiced cider was just too much for her tastes. “He’s dozing now.”

She sounded oddly satisfied. His eyes widened in realization. He sometimes forgot that she was almost as clever as her brother. She just hid it behind soft smiles and demure demeanor.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” she whispered. And then she kissed him.

Her kisses were a pleasant, warm thing. They seemed so natural. When he pulled her close and her body melted into his own, they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Kissing her was addictive.

They’d started meeting after her father had broached the possibility of a betrothal to his father. He knew they’d been overly hopeful. He knew nothing would come of it. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He’d been surprised when she’d found him standing guard on the battlements one night. They’d still been waiting for a return raven from his father. She’d said nothing, which he later understood was because there were too many people around. She’d only smiled at him as she passed by and then, carefully using her cloak to conceal her hand, she handed him a jonquil with her right. 

He’d been touched by the small gift and tucked it without comment behind his sword belt. It was only later that he realized that the jonquil, with its clusters of small yellow flowers, meant that she desired both a return of affection and domestic bliss. Especially when delivered with the right hand.

He’d hesitated, searching his mind to ensure he understood its meaning. It took days, but once he was sure, he worked up the courage to pass her his own jonquil during a service in the sept. Fortunately, he remembered just in time to pass it with his right. They’d been meeting in secret ever since.

It wasn’t as if they had some grand, overriding, blinding passion. Yes, his blood felt like it was on fire when she touched him and his body reacted to hers, but he never took leave of his senses. She just felt soft and sweet and welcoming, and he thought it was wonderful when he felt her heart beat under his.

Neither one of them were stupid. They never took it too far. If they were caught it would be embarrassing, not disastrous. While Lord Tarly would most likely have him whipped out of his hall, so long as her virtue was intact then he’d likely escape with just a beating and some scars. 

She’d certainly suffer less than he. At most, she’d be confined to her quarters. But her mother would protect her and that would end soon enough, she claimed. After all, Lady Melessa was very fond of telling stories of her midnight strolls through the gardens with her husband, before they were wed or even betrothed. How could he blame her for following in their footsteps?

Besides, Talla was his favorite daughter. She was the only daughter to sometimes beat him at cyvasse, which Lord Tarly thought amusing. He wouldn’t be able to stay angry with her forever.

They continued meeting even after his father had rejected her father’s proposal. Jon didn’t hate Lord Tywin for doing so. He was sure that he had his reasons. But it did hurt.

He’d tried to break it off after the rejection came. She’d dismissed his efforts out of hand, going so far as to corner him in his chambers when he took to avoiding her. 

She bluntly told him that her heart was not a candle to be lit and snuffed out at will. He was hers and she was his, and it would remain that way until one of them was forced to wed another. In the meantime, she’d pray to the Maiden that they’d find a way to change his father’s mind or, maybe, that her father would accept a bastard knight as his goodson.

He knew his father would not readily change his mind. He knew that her father would never accept anything less than a strong lord for his daughter. But he was weak. He let her convince him that even if Lord Tarly walked in on them directly, her mother would still manage the situation well enough. Betrothal or no betrothal.

Far too soon, he felt her pull away from him. Tears glistened in her eyes. He kissed them and then pulled her head into his chest. She burrowed into him.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

“And I you,” he returned. To his embarrassment, his eyes felt a little wet. He blinked it away. He was to be a knight tomorrow. He had no time for tears.

He felt her leg wrap around his, her inner thigh caressing his thigh. He swallowed. This could get out of hand. He would not dishonor her, he insisted to himself. He would not father a bastard.

“You should go.” His voice was rough. He wanted nothing more than to pick her up and lay her down on the altar. 

Her response was to pull his head down and kiss him again. He returned it as he pushed her against the wall, pinning her between the space between the Smith and the Warrior. He lost his senses for a moment. Later, he’d be ashamed to remember that his hands had gone places they had agreed they would not go.

Just then, however, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It seemed she shared his lack of care, if her wandering hands were any indication.

It was only when his traitorous hands began to pull her dress up around her waist that she pulled back, even as trapped as she was against the wall. 

“We can’t do this, Jon,” she moaned thickly, her hands framing his face as she stared into his eyes. “It would shame my House.”

He took a breath, his body still tight against hers, trying to still his rapidly beating heart. Reluctantly, he released the hem of her dress, letting it fall back around her ankles.

Their foreheads met. “I know,” he replied, ashamed at his loss of control. Gradually he regained control of his breathing and his wits. He took a half step back. “My apologies, Lady Talla.” 

He truly regretted almost shaming her. Kisses in the garden were one thing. What he wanted to do, what the wolf wanted to do, he dimly realized, was another thing entirely.

Besides, his father had drilled into his mind that he had Lannister blood. Enemies were everywhere. He had to keep his wits about him. More than one strong knight had lost his life when distracted by a woman.

She stepped back into him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Stop it, Jon,” she lectured him. “You did nothing that I didn’t want you to do. But we both have a duty to our Houses.”

She was crying silently again. Her tears made him feel helpless. He searched for something witty to say, something to engage her mind. “Love is the death of duty,” he said, quoting a long forgotten philosopher.

She smiled sadly up at him, then rested her head against his chest. “Not always, love. Not always.”

They stayed like that a long while, swaying back and forth. 

He was reluctant to speak, but it was necessary. “Dustin won’t stay asleep at his post forever,” he forced out. 

Truly, that he was asleep at his post was a dereliction of duty warranting a flogging. Jon had a hard time holding it against him, considering his own violation of duty.

She reached down and took his hand, then pressed a green silk scarf into his palm. “When you go, wear my favor.” She looked up at him again, eyes bright with hope. “Maybe something will change and we can be together, become a family.” She pressed her lips against his hand. “And if not, it can serve as a remembrance of our time together.”

A family. With him, a bastard. It made him feel light headed when he considered that she might actually want a family with him someday. That she’d say those words, even if to express a forlorn hope, when he lacked lands, or gold, or swords in his service.

He smiled, even if it felt like his heart was going to break. “You do me too much honor, my lady.” He kissed her forehead, before pulling her close for a brief moment. 

He hesitated, then reached under his tunic for a lion pendant he’d worn since he was a child. It was a simple thing, small, cast in bronze, on a leather cord. When he placed it around her neck, her smile lit up the sept.

She left soon after. She gave him one last reassuring smile when she glanced into the corridor, indicating that Dustin was still asleep at his post. 

He resisted following behind to give him a kick once he was sure she was clear. It seemed a petty thing to do, considering the courtesy the drunken guardsman had unknowingly shown him.

The following day passed in a whirlwind of activity. Lord Tarly knighted him in the presence of the assembled hall and presented him with arms and armor. After the ceremony, there was a feast, where everyone took turns telling stories of Jon’s time at Horn Hill. He was genuinely touched at the affection that was evident in many of the voices that spoke.

Dickon challenged him to a mock duel with sausages. He accepted. He let the boy win and then promptly knighted him with the surviving links. Lord Tarly laughed at seeing Dickon beam proudly at his mock victory. 

Jon danced with Lady Melessa and then all the Tarly daughters but Talla. She was being kept close next to her father.

When he moved to speak with her, Lady Melessa intercepted him and demanded another dance from him. There was a knowing, sad look in her eye when she caught him glancing at her daughter from across the hall, as they spun across the room. He understood when she gave her head a gentle shake, warning him away.

His delight in the festivities seemed to dim after that, though he stayed awake far into the night. The morning came too soon, but when it did, he was on the road with his escort.

A half dozen Lannister armsmen had been present at his knighting. They were charged with escorting him back to Casterly Rock. He immediately took the lead, as was his right as a knight and the son, even if only the natural son, of their lord. 

It took them half a day to realize that they were not headed true north towards Casterly Rock, but were following a more north-easterly path. It was the sergeant, Tor, who spoke first.

“Ser Jon, excuse me,” he said as he pulled even with him. “I think we’ve taken the wrong path.”

Jon smiled. “That depends, Tor. If this is the path to King’s Landing and the Hand’s Tournament, then we are on the correct path. If not, then we’ll have to ask directions at the next village.”

Tor looked flummoxed. “I’ve been ordered to return you safely to the Rock, Ser,” he finally squeezed out.

Jon laughed. “And you shall. But by way of King’s Landing. I want to test myself against the best knights in the kingdom.” And make a reputation for myself, he added as he touched Talla’s scarf. He’d wrapped it around his shield arm as soon as they were out of sight of Horn Hill. 

They rode in silence as Tor tried to voice an objection that would not cause offense. Finally, he managed, “your lord father will not be pleased.”

Jon said nothing for long moments. “My lord father will not be pleased with the delay, aye. But if I can bring honor to his name, he’ll be more pleased than not.”

When Tor made to speak again, Jon raised his hand to forestall him. “I’ll hear no more of it, sergeant. Follow or not, but leave off your objections. It’s too beautiful a day for naysayers.”

Perhaps it was Jon’s presence or commanding tone. Perhaps it was because they were trained to obey. Or more likely, Jon thought, the Lannisters' armsmen were simply used to the willfulness of Lannisters in general. Regardless of the reason, the sergeant left off his objections and fell back into his position in the column.

It was a beautiful day, he realized, as he lost himself to the rhythm of his horse and memories of the girl he left behind. 

AWP AWP AWP

AN: I haven’t decided if Talla/Jon is the [mostly] innocent young love which fades into fond memories as they age and each move on, or if they become the main pairing. There’s lots of time to decide that.

AN: I know the Northerners don’t sacrifice to weirwood any more. Jon was educated from books on the rites associated with the old gods. His information is seen through the prism of a prejudiced, southern tutor who is teaching outdated information.

AN: Use of the right hand meant ‘yes’ and use of the left hand meant ‘no’ in the flower code. Where one wore a flower had meaning also. I just googled an example which I used for this chapter. I’m not even sure I got it right. Don’t worry, it won’t become a regular thing as: 1) it is very confusing; and, 2) we’re leaving the Reach.


End file.
